picked all my weeds
by onemakaveli96
Summary: Her voice instigates tears that had sprung to his eyes, but had not moved, but now the water cascades down his blue oceans while his mouth moves to a smile, & waterfalls feed his thirst right down to the pipe of his throat. Michael x Sara, S3/S4 spoilers.


**Title:** picked all my weeds (_but kept the flowers_)  
**Rating:** T  
**Pairing:** Michael/Sara  
**Summary:** _Her voice instigates tears that had sprung to his eyes, but had not moved, but now the water cascades down his blue oceans while his mouth moves to a smile, and waterfalls feed his thirst right down to the pipe of his throat. _S3/S4 Spoilers  
**Note: **Read, Review, **Enjoy.**

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He hears noises that weren't there before. It's far too quiet, and the empty space doesn't feel so lonesome anymore. The gravel crunches on the sole of his feet as he walks to his car, but the non-existent sounds instinctively move his left hand to his hip, where a gun is holstered. Maybe it's a force of habit, but it's definitely normal by now.

Running, survival, near-death--the only thing that's new is the physical chasing.

He's chased the truth, the lies, but never the people for a truth he wished to be a lie.

On the left side of his belt is that black gun, with which he has shot at people with two times. Another four or five times he's shot it for distraction, but only twice for the purpose of injuring and/or killing.

He has failed on both counts each time, and they say that when you are intent on doing something, when you really want something, only you are stopping yourself. Either that or something much more powerful than you is stopping your objective--he believes that if anything, it is the latter, but mostly he believes the circumstance has not been right but it will be.

In the left pocket of his jeans is an origami rose, the red paper fading into a fragmented pink, the green paper bent with the stems looking broken. But he preserves it the best he can--it is his good, and although it fades, it still exists.

When gravel crunches after he has reached his car and stopped walking, he grabs the gun without a second thought and swirls around. Ready to meet his nemesis, prepared to meet his maker.

But the eyes he meets are not that of a nemesis, or of an omnipotent being. They are the eyes of the last person he was prepared to encounter, and this is evident when the gun in his hand, which had been pointed ahead of him, falls to the ground, his mouth is left agape, hands twitch, and his eyes widen.

Brown, chestnut, almost auburn hair is half down, half tied up messily, the curls unkempt. There are no earrings, no necklace, there is no makeup or any decoration of the sort on her.

A simple sweater, grey and bland but clean, is zipped up over a black t-shirt. She wears jeans, naturally faded, maybe a bit outdated, but sturdy and comfortable like her. Black tennis shoes adorn her feet, the laces tied up seemingly too tight, but they look good and strong for running--he knows she's been running because the rubber sole of the shoes peel.

Her mouth is in a tight line, her arms at her side, hands going from loose fists to wavering fingers. Her eyes, they sparkle at meeting his, but the gulp in her throat shows the anxiety boiling over into her nervous system. Then her eyes shift, and the sparkle retracts, because they both are getting over the shock of seeing one another once again, and answers are needed.

But he has to get a grip of himself first, so he closes his mouth, and his eyes contract. He finally breathes when he speaks her name--"Sara."

And when he says it, and a faction of a smile appears on her face, he says it again, to reiterate the fact that she is standing right in front of him.

"Sara," in a tone that is half-laughing at the irony of laugh, and that is half-morbid for the very irony of life, he says his name as he takes a step towards her. She remains firm, and that faction of a smile stays as well.

A step turns into three, his arms envelop hers, a hand holds her head to his chest, his nose rests on her halo, and he inhales her. And he doesn't know if she has been using the same shampoo, or better yet that this is her natural scent, but it is the same Sara and there is no doubt that he is holding her in his arms.

"Sara," and he hears her repeat that same strange laugh, and she wraps her arms around him as well.

"Michael."

Her voice instigates tears that had sprung to his eyes, but had not moved, but now the water cascades down his blue oceans while his mouth moves to a smile, and waterfalls feed his thirst right down to the pipe of his throat.

Forever passes by, but the 40 seconds pass by too soon and they pull pack. He moves his hands over her back, then on to her shoulders and arms, trying to communicate the warmth her presence and liveliness that has been infused in him. He remains on her shoulders, and what is barely a sentence forms from his mouth.

"Sara, how--what…? I mean, how?" he is not questioning the miracle, only trying to grasp the insanity of all this.

She leaves her hands on his hips, and a sad smile appears on her face--she knew he would need the answer, knew she had to say it, but to verbalize it is something she has never practiced. The words always choke on themselves, the incomprehensible reality always makes her head spin.

He can read from her glazed eyes and weak smile those things, and he opens his mouth to say that he can wait for the answer, for when she's ready. She speaks first however, so instead he holds her as firmly as he can, trying to exude strength so she can feel a lesser pain.

"They--" she exhales strongly at that word, at the mention of 'they' and he feels the same way.

"We were gagged, blindfolded. That--that woman--"

He and she know who is being referenced.

"She said she was going to be nice, and not have us endure the sight, but we could hear. She narrated everything, told LJ she was right in front of me, knife in hand, and…"

She shakes her head, eyes falling to the floor, hands loosening their grip.

He moves a hand from her shoulder and puts a finger under her chin, tilting her head up to meet his eyes. She has to know he's her confidant, the one who can understand and is willing to be strong for her. It's not easy though, and she only nods weakly, and inhales deeply.

"I could hear her sharpening the knife, and could feel her cold hand pushing my head forward. I think I was screaming, but all I could hear were muffled cries. Whether they were mine or LJ's…"

She is sorry for that too, it is evident when she speaks LJ's name, that one way or another she blames herself for LJ's plight. But Michael holds that burden stronger than any one of them, and Sara knows this so she quickly moves on.

"I, um, I heard what I thought was flesh cutting, and I thought maybe I was so numb to the moment that I blacked out, or maybe I had already died and blocked out the pain, because suddenly my hands were free and I tore off my blindfold, and…everything was black. I couldn't see anything, or hear anything, and I didn't know what to think…"

She locks gazes with him, and moves closer to where they are nose to nose.

"They didn't kill me, Michael. But they put me in another room, and eventually to another facility. And that woman? She told me they found someone who looked like me, killed her because of me, to make you think I was dead."

Her eyes are wide, and the lost life of a stranger causes a tremble in the tips of her fingers. Her lips quiver with those fingers, and he pulls her close as tears that were never shed fall. Lives lost, overwhelming fear, guilt, and disbelief engulf her, a desperation he knows all too well.

"But you're here now Sara," he whispers on her crown, soothing her with his voice, moving his hand up and down her back.

"They almost killed me Michael, after they got Whistler, but I managed to escape this time," she whispers on his chest.

"You mean--"

"They still had me three weeks ago."

For three weeks he had chased leads, Sofia, sightings, and Whistler on an occasion. But the dead ends and lack of answers on who really did the killing make sense now. She had never been killed, there was no murderer, and the chase had been pointless. All along, it was Sara that needed to find Michael--he only had to stand still.

"Thank God you're alive."

Even though he's gone on a self-sacrificing journey for a reason not tangible anymore, even though he has undergone changes that cannot be expelled completely within one moment, that very fact breathes a sense of peace into his soul. Just like when he met her, she became that piece of peace during the war of conspiracies. And now he has her, safe (albeit ony for now), in his arms, alive, maybe damaged, but nevertheless real.

"But we can't stay here."

All reality sets in, and they move out from the embrace. Sara nods in agreement and wipes her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater. He opens the car, and helps her inside. He gives her an encouraging smile and closes the door, and begins walking to the driver's side when his eye catches sight of the gun he had dropped and all but forgotten.

Relief comes in a wave when he realizes that for the first time since his brother told him that Sara died, he has not had the urge to pull a trigger. He crouches down slowly to pick up the gun, holds it in his hand for a moment, and straps it back into his belt. Then he reaches into his pocket, and carefully pulls out the origami rose. With a nostalgic smile he walks to the driver's side, takes his seat, and turns to Sara.

"I think you should have this back," he moves his hand to her to reveal the rose, and a genuine smile sprouts on her features. She picks up the rose tentatively, a look of awe on her face, and brings it to her nose. She takes a breath, and closes her eyes, inhaling the memory of how it first came into her possession and she opens her eyes.

With her free hand, she reaches out to the one that has just given her the origami rose, and squeezes it.

"Thank you."

He smiles in turn, and runs his thumb over her hand.

"No, Sara--thank you."


End file.
